


Pound of Flesh

by Lolymoon



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Romance, Corruption, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Femslash, Heavy Angst, Physical Abuse, Romantic Snow Queen, Sexual Abuse, marital rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-03-19 10:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3606078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lolymoon/pseuds/Lolymoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“I saw.”</em><br/><em>Even before she can figure out what the child means, even before she realizes the horror of that statement, Regina feels something dark and cold and heavy settle on her heart at Snow’s uncharacteristic gravity. The child is looking at her again, and her eyes are so huge in that sickly face, so troubled and blurry with feverish tears, it sends shivers of dread down her back and in her stomach.</em><br/><em>“What did you see?”</em><br/> <br/>/INDEFINITE HIATUS/ <br/>FTL. Canon Divergent. One night, while hiding in Regina’s bedchamber, a thirteen-year-old Snow White witnesses a scene between her father and very young step-mother that will leave her scarred for life… and willing to embrace the darkness as she grows older and has to watch Regina endures the situation. Eventual romantic Snow Queen</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shock

**Author's Note:**

> This is the product of a bad day.  
> It’s based on a canon-divergent idea. What if Snow White had witnessed what happened between her beloved father and idolized step-mother behind closed doors? How differently would it shape her, if she was made aware of the abuse and the violence Regina had to endure in that marriage?  
> This is a dark!Snow fic. And also it will feature romantic Snow Queen, but not before Snow is of age, because this story is already enough twisted as it is.  
> For the purpose of this story, Regina married Leopold at sixteen, Snow was eleven.  
> Be warned, it’s not light, and it deals with spousal abuse and marital rape and all kinds of nasty stuff.  
> This being said, I hope you’ll still enjoy it.
> 
> x
> 
> Also, nothing belongs to me, yadda yadda.

_This is a nightmare._

 

_There are the pants and the gasps and the grunts and the creaks of the heavy, royal bed, as the rough mating goes on and on, and she doesn’t know which is worse, the sounds she hears or the sounds she doesn’t hear._

_She hears her father but she doesn’t hear her stepmother at all. It’s like she’s not breathing anymore. Like she’s not living._

_Snow takes a glimpse._

 

_The vision horrifies her so much she feels sick and she is so_  
_so afraid of throwing up_  
_she slams her hand over her mouth._

 

_This is her father._

  
_This. That wrinkled old man with his pale, veiny butt wiggling in the air, pumping erratically between the smooth, creamy, tense legs of his wife. This is her father, the King, her Hero, the great man whose kindness is praised in all the kingdom, the man with the gentle smile and the gentle hands, that man, her father. He looks like the dogs she has seen mating with the bitches in the stable yard when there was nobody around to cover her chaste princess’s eyes._

  
_He’s an animal._

  
_He looks like the savage soldiers who sometimes do very bad things to women during war, the ones her father, the King, has had executed._

  
_He is a monster._

  
_He is not her father._

 

 

_This is her stepmother._

  
_She only sees the toes curling in agony on the sheets, the sole sign of life of a body that is otherwise limp as a corpse’s, legs spread wide, knees falling on the mattress, arms outstreched, motionless, a mane of soft, black hair, glistening with sweat. This is her stepmother. A corpse. A corpse crying under a man who’s her father but who’s not. Who cannot be._

_Now she hears it. The noises_ she _makes. The repressed whines and the soft cries that seem even too loud because there’s a_ smack _and he slapped her, his father-not-her-father with the gentle smile and gentle hands, he slapped her because her sounds displeased him._

  
_She wants to cry. She can’t._

  
_She’d rather not hear at all. She’d rather see her dead. See_ him _dead._

  
_Her nails dig into her cheeks, lips, flesh, pure, unblemished, white flesh, and she is disgusted with herself, bad, bad daughter (but she is even more disgusted by him, wrong, wrong father), and she cries her first silent tears that only adults shed while she hides again behind the black screen, waiting for it to be over, waiting for it to end, praying for him to finish._

 

  
_._

 

 

_This is a nightmare._

 

_She had thought she could escape it this time before he went for one of his rare voyages, as he had been quite ill up until the week of his departure, but of course, he had recovered more quickly than the healers had predicted, fit as a fiddle and of a mind to make love to his beautiful young wife before taking his leave._

_A tender goodbye._

_Surely, this is what must go through his head when he thinks about it, she hopes, she hopes that at least he doesn’t mean to hurt her, that he doesn’t do it on purpose (she’s not sure whether it’s better or worse to think like this). She hopes he is blind to her pain because he genuinely doesn’t see it, not because he doesn’t care or because he enjoys it. She hopes he is blind to her as she writhes helplessly on the sheets, blind, his beady old eyes filled with romantic lies. But_ she _is not blind and to her eyes, there is no romanticizing_ this, _and she sees_ it _for what it really is: an old lech emptying his balls in the most convenient vessel he could lay hands on. There is no use denying the reality of what’s happening to her. She had tried, oh, she had tried, tried to find love, tried to find care, and then, desperatly, a semblance of affection, just a tinge of acknowledgment from his part that he saw her as a human being, as something other than a pretty toy to abuse at his will. But it had all been for naught, and she despises herself for having been so foolish as to try to please him, and for having her heart ache everytime he moaned “Eva” in her ear. But above all, she despises herself for enduring this and not do anything about it, for not fighting hard enough, for being_ weak. _He makes her weak._

  
_Like mother used to._

 

_Everytime she tries to keep absolutely still and to fly far away, down deep in her mind, the only part of her that hasn’t been trapped yet, she flees and she soars towards the meadows and Firefly Hill and dancing blue eyes full of love and adorable mischief –_

_Then he bites her shoulder and she holds back a yelp as a trickle of blood runs down her arm. Sometimes she can get away. Sometimes she can’t._

_She never weeps, though, never since the first night._

  
_She avoids focusing too much on the sensations – but she has always felt things very vividly, even as a child (she tends to not think of herself a child anymore, though she has not reached eighteen yet, but how can she be a child when she's met to be a mother and a wife) and right now she feels it all, the stench of wine exuding from his puffs and pants, his cold and sweaty skin, his wrist joints cracking as he holds her hands above her head, his member that stretches her so uncomfortably, a deformed worm gliding in and out of her, covered in spit because she is never wet enough for this and sometimes he has to help things along or he can’t enter at all and can't feel his own pleasure, but it hurts all the same. She feels it all, too much, for too long, too many years even if it’s only been two and she wants to die, oh why can’t she just die, just die, just die, she repeats as a mantra at the pace of his thrusts._

_She closes her eyes and bites her tongue till blood spills in her mouth, waiting for it to be over, waiting for it to end, praying for him to finish._

 

 

.  
.  
.

 

 

Snow White is ill.

  
The simpering, egoistic, sniveling brat is ill.  
Regina should rejoice.  
The marks on her wrists and thighs and the soreness of her core want her to rejoice and thrive on the child’s misery.  
One has to pay for the sins of the father.  
But for some obscure reason that is quite impossible to figure out, Regina is unsettled and unhappy.

  
And confused.

  
Because the girl still hasn’t called for her, as she always had the few times she had been taken ill (she has an excellent health, hardy child with rosy cheeks, one more thing to despise in that fairy-blessed princess), crying out for her and holding on too tight to her hand as she emptied the contents of her stomach in a basin or shook with exhaustion and fever. She asked for stories, she asked for lullabies, she asked for her smile, she asked for having her hair brushed, she asked, asked, asked until Regina wanted nothing more than to wind her hands around the slender white neck and crush her windpipe and see blood leaking from the bright eyes.  
But she smiled and she brushed and she told and she sang.  
She waited. Biding her time.  
Her day would come. Her day of glory where she would bathe naked in the accursed blood of this wretched family.

 

But why hasn’t Snow White sent for her?

 

At the end of the day, when the word is spreading through the castle that the young princess is getting worse, and Regina is pacing with irritation and impatience in her room, she decides to go and see for herself.

Only to witness her suffering. Only to be thrilled by her sorry state.

Certainly not because she is worried.

 

The princess’s bedchamber is dark and damp, the cloying smell of healing mixtures and fever sweat pervading her nostrils in the most unpleasant way. She rushes past a concerned maid ( _you’ll get sick too, your majesty!_ ) and quickly lifts the blinds and opens the window, allowing in some light and air to ease the thick atmosphere of the room.

 

“Oh, your majesty, you shouldn’t, the wind won’t do the princess no good, she’ll catch her death!”

 

“She’ll most certainly die if she breathes one more minute this putrid air. You may leave, now, Johanna.”

 

“But… the princess…”

 

“…shall be taken care of. Your services are no longer wanted. I’ll handle it from here. Leave.”

 

The dismissal is final. She may be just reaching adulthood, she may have been a queen for not exactly two years yet, she may hold no real power under this roof, under the careless, unsympathetic thumb of the King, but she knows how to use her voice. She knows how to stand and swathe herself in the illusion of a threat. She knows how to give the pretense of power, of a great and terrifying power she is not wielding yet, but will be soon. If her giggly, maddening mentor is to be trusted.

Johanna curtsies respectfully, casts a worried glance at Snow, and then retreats, slowly walking backward towards the exit.

Regina doesn’t look at her as she leaves. There is no lost love between them, her sullen disposition and skittish behavior lacking confronted to the splendid and untarnished memory of Queen Eva, good and pure and loved and _belonging_ \- she doesn't belong, not with that foreign look around her and her suspicious origins. She settles on the bed next to the still form of the child and waits for the door to close.

As soon as it does, she reaches for the matted hair sticking to Snow’s forehead, brushing it aside in what could be called a tender gesture. The girl is paler than her name. It’s a bit concerning. When Regina speaks, her voice takes that soft intonation she can never seem to discard entirely when she’s around Snow White. A cruel and persistent reminder of a slowly agonizing gentleness.

 

“My dear, you look positively disastrous. Have you been running barefoot through the castle again?”

 

Slowly, the eyes open as Regina's voice washes over her. Snow blinks a few times, deep lines of confusion etched on her forehead, and she croaks as she says with difficulty:

 

“What are you doing here? I didn’t send…”

 

“I know you didn’t send for me. But you can’t blame me for caring about you, Snow. I must confess I was a bit wounded by your silence. Did you not want me here?”

 

She is stroking the young princess’s cheeks, a beautiful smile on her lips, one that usually makes the stupid child’s face light up with joy while she bleeds and rages inside, but tonight that subtle weapon of hers fails. Snow is looking at her with an increased worry and something she can’t quite define, and the girl tears her eyes away as she whispers:

 

“I was hoping you wouldn’t come. Really, I was.”

 

It is Regina’s turn to frown at this most unusual behavior. There hasn’t been a day in Snow White's life since she has met Regina where she hasn’t wanted her. Something must be terribly wrong.

 

“My dear, I’m afraid I don’t understand…”

 

“I saw.”

 

Even before she can figure out what the child means, even before she realizes the horror of that statement, Regina feels something dark and cold and heavy settle on her heart at Snow’s uncharacteristic gravity. The child is looking at her again, and her eyes are so huge in that sickly face, so troubled and blurry with feverish tears, it sends shivers of dread down her back and in her stomach.

 

“What did you see?”

 

There is no softness in her voice anymore. There is an edge, a razor sharp edge, cutting, deadly, smooth, that ends on a knife point. Snow trembles, and Regina doesn’t know if it is the illness or the fear, and her voice is shaking too as she admits in a petrified whimper:

 

“I was in your bedchamber’s yesternight.”

 

Regina stills.

Everything in the room stills with her.

 

“ _What_?” she rasps, between gritted teeth, her eyes two black holes of pain and shame and fury.

 

Snow struggles to lift herself on one elbow, suddenly wanting to get as close to Regina as she can get, to hold her hands and her face and begs for forgiveness and she wants to tear out the monstruous eyes that don’t belong to her sweet, loving stepmother, and she is horrified at herself and her thoughts – _she’s no better than father_ – and she starts to cry and sob and choke.

 

“Please, Regina! I didn’t mean to! I wanted to surprise you, I had a gift for you and I wanted… the surprise… and I… I thought father was only coming in to wish you goodnight so I hid… and… and… I’m so s…”

 

Regina’s hand slaps her hard across the mouth as she tries to shut her up. Snow swallows back a yelp and submits willingly, her eyes pleading and frightened, but she doesn’t try to pry off the hand from her mouth, even as the nails dig uncomfortably in her plump cheeks.

 

“Don’t.”

 

Her stepmother has spoken so low she could have mouthed the word instead of actually saying it out loud.  
But never her word has released so much power.

 

When Regina slowly pulls her hand away from her face, Snow stands agape, deprived of will, dried out of speech, mad with fatigue, heartsick. Regina is unreadable, recomposing herself, fractured shard by fractured shard. When her voice echoes in the room again, she isn’t looking at Snow White, and her head is held high.

 

“You shall never speak of it again. You will wipe that memory out of your mind. It has never existed.”

 

With excruciating slowness, she raises from the bed, hands clenched over her belly, looking like claws.

 

“Regina… p…please…”

 

Her prayer isn’t heard. Her goddess is furious with her. She is disgraced. She is unworthy. She aches. It burns like the fever blazing in her veins. It burns in her heart. She sobs quietly as Regina turns her back on her and walks to the door, flat heels still making brisk noises on the floor. Her hand on the handle, she speaks one last time:

 

“Now, heal, Snow White. And forget.”

 

“No… no please, I’m so… I’m sorr…”

 

The door clicks gently behind Regina.

She is left alone in her room.

When Johanna enters, she is in shock, her eyes staring unseeing at the wall while the woman fusses over her.

 

She stares at smooth, olive-skinned, creamy thighs smeared with blood.


	2. Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the response on this story. I frankly wasn't expecting it? Well, walk with me on the dark side, my friends. Because this road ain't about to get any lighter.
> 
> I'm a bit uncertain about this chapter. Mostly because almost all of it is from Snow's point of view, and it was hard to get into the head of a 13-year-old little girl who doesn't know much but is learning too quickly things that she shouldn't and... I'm not an expert in disturbed minds and psychology but for my owns so... I tried. 
> 
> There is a very disturbing dream at the beginning. You can skip the part in italics if you don't think you can stomach it. There's no graphic description of rape but the setting is pretty twisted. 
> 
> Thanks again for the comments, kudos, and, well, reading, it's amazing. I'm taking this story slowly and see where it'll lead me.
> 
> On with the horror show!

 

Two days after Snow's illness has passed, Regina has a strange dream.

 

_She is running barefoot behind Leopold's horse as the king is urging his mount to go faster and faster. The poor beast's coat is foamy with sweat, and it is huffing in painful rasps. But Leopold is relentless and keeps beating the mare's flanks with spurs, until a trickle of blood is running on the brown skin and down the legs._

 

_“Faster, father, faster!”_

 

_Snow White is sitting astride the fence, mimicking a rider, her crop tapping against the wood soundly and she is laughing, all her bright teeth showing in the sunlight, shining aggressively._

 

_“You have to keep up Regina, come on!”_

 

_She has to run, and run, and her feet are bloody and aching and useless lumps that can't make her go as fast as the horse, and why doesn't she have a horse, why does she have to stay on the ground and walk in the mud behind the King, “you can't have a horse yet,” shouts Snow White, “father says you can't have a horse until you're grown!”_

 

_I am grown, she wants to say but she can only pant, pant and keep on running, you made me grown, both of you, you made me –_

 

_“Faster, father, faster!”_

 

_The scene is different and she is on a bed but she is still gasping, still hurting, but this time it's between her legs, and no, he's here again, grunting, spitting, biting, and she wants to cry, she wants to scream, oh no not again, not again I'm so tired, I'm so tired, please no let me sleep, just let me sleep, I'm so..._

_Snow White is giggling and Regina turns her head sharply. The girl is sitting backwards on a chair by her bedside table, her little head cocked, an eager expression on her face._

_Go away, Regina wants to scream while her husband is becoming red in the face, a dangerous sign that he is coming close to his release, go away, child, go away!_

_But Snow White stays to watch and watch and watch and she's clapping her hands just like she did when she was encouraging her father on the horse, and she yells: “harder, father, harder!” and he does, oh gods, he does, and she's breaking, she feels ripped apart, her insides torn, but nothing can compare to the feeling of absolute helplessness, to the shame and terror and madness of seeing Snow White laughing and cheering and smiling as her father spills his old seed into her with a final shout._

 

_“You have to keep up, Regina!”_

 

Regina wakes up from her nightmare with bile in her mouth and crescent bruises on her cheeks, where her nails have dug deep. She throws back the covers with a strangled whimper and means to rise from the bed. She bends over and vomits as soon as her foot touches the ground.

She's the one who has to stay in bed that day.

Thankfully, Snow White doesn't come to visit.

 

.  
.  
.

 

It must be her fault.

 

Regina's.

 

Snow has been thinking about it (how could she do anything but? The images are etched in her mind), and this is the only conclusion that makes sense. The only conclusion possible. The only thing that reconciles what she has thought of her father until then and what she has witnessed.

Father is kind, he is gentle, he is loving, he is warm. He is a good man.

(She repeats that, like a snooty little pupil learning words that don't quite make sense yet. Kind, gentle, loving, warm. Good.)

So Regina must be bad. And that's why she's being punished. She wouldn't be punished if she hadn't been bad, would she? And her kind, gentle, loving, warm father would not have been so hard with her if he hadn't had good reasons.

Yes, it's all very simple (too simple, whispers a nagging little voice in the back of her mind, the one that fills her head with thoughts reeking of wickedness). Regina has been bad. She has been punished. This is logical. There is nothing to worry about. Her world is still safe and sound, whole and full of sense.

Yet, she doesn't forget. She can't think of anything else.

 

She's angry at her step-mother. It's a festering anger, one that isn't bright and righteous and vibrant, but dark and muted and exhausting. It brings with it sideways glances and strained smiles and biting words and foul temper.

 

When another one of those tempers strikes, she finds refuge in the huge royal library, with its purple hangings and mahogany shelves that are so tall they reach the ceiling fifty feet above her head. It's snug and comforting here, far away from the castle's buzzing activity, and no one will be looking for her in that place.

 

She has snapped at Regina again. She never does this. Never intentionally. But she is furious with her. Why, oh why did she have to be bad? Why did she have to make daddy angry, why did she have to bring that punishment on herself? Why does she have to make her doubt and doubt and doubt?

She's afraid. She's afraid because she recalls some other memories, some scenes and clues from her childhood that she begins to understand now and she doesn't want to, _it's Regina_ , she thinks stubbornly, _it's her fault._

 

Snow is crying, ugly, loud sobs echoing amidst the indifferent books, old repositories of a world's wisdom she wished she could possess.

She only asks for some guidance. She only craves for the truth.

But no one will give her truth. Too young, too royal, too girl. Truth and knowledge aren't for prim and proper princesses. They're only fed etiquette and pretty dresses and piano lessons, and gentle lies to protect their hearts, and careful avoidances to preserve their souls.

They are taught to be dolls. So she has no idea what it's like to be a woman, and what it's like to become one.

 

“After all what do I know about these things?” Snow hiccups between painful wails, “maybe this is normal. Maybe this is what happens between a husband and a wife.”

 

Maybe it is supposed to hurt. Mother was hurt sometimes. She would never tell, never show but Snow would know because there was a cleft in her smile. Mothers hurt. Women hurt when the babies go out of their bellies (that she knows because she has heard the cook, Lucia, screams and screams and screams while the doctor was shouting “Push! Push! Push!” before Johanna had found her and brought her to her room, scolding that it wasn't for her young ears). So if having babies hurt, then making them must hurt too. Logically.

 

Were her father and Regina trying to make babies that night?

 

She needs to know. She needs to find out more about men and women and love and making babies and hurting each other. She needs to _learn_.

 

She scurries out of her hideout on the window seats stuffed with soft and large cushions, behind the heavy curtains, and runs to the nearest shelf.

She stalls, looking up helplessly at the books. There are so many of them. How can one know where to start? For all the times she has come hiding here, she has almost never opened a book. She's happy with the ones she has, all wonderful tales of bravery and romance and fierce knights and enchanted creatures and beautiful ladies, she reads them over and over again and doesn't bother to find new ones. She doesn't like reading very much, she prefers listening. Before Regina came into her life, it was Johanna's role to tell her stories at bedtime. Now she only ever wants Regina to do it. But her step-mother isn't always compliant, says she's too grown-up now for storytime. She is the only one ever to tell her she is too grown-up for anything, and Snow is so satisfied with herself and her great maturity then that she doesn't mind that much, and she consoles herself with the same old books sometimes before going to sleep.

As she climbs up the ladder, further up, further up towards the books that are not for little hands to reach, she peers at the titles, frowns when she doesn't understand, and blushes sometimes when she thinks she does and she doesn't want to know more. Yet. She just needs something in-between, something that would educate her without being too much of a shock... A bold-colored cover catches her eyes and her hand reaches for it on impulse. The illustration is lovely, bright green meadows with two little naked figures locked in a passionate embrace. The sun is setting down and there are tiny white figures everywhere that look like sheeps. She bites her lips at the title. _The Princess and the Shepherd_. She knows a lot of stories about penniless men falling in love with royal women. They're her favorites. She opens the book shyly. There are a lot of pictures. Her eyes widen slightly at some of them, and she shuts the book close quickly, looking down to see if anyone's coming.

 

No one.

 

She takes a deep breath and peeps back at the book. Yes, this one will do.

Carefully, she begins her descent, holding on tight to the volume, and she jumps to the floor and runs to her special place, feeling already giddy with excitement, the book clutched hard in her hand, thoughts swirling in her head, about forbidden and naughty and dangerous and not proper, and she barks out a laugh and then she stops dead before reaching the curtains as a voice rises behind her.

 

“And where do you think you are running like that, young lady?”

 

Breathless, heart hammering in her chest to the point of being physically painful, Snow slowly turns to Regina, who is watching her quietly, with a strange glint in her dark eyes.

 

“I didn't do anything wrong!”

 

She winces as her voice sounds unpleasantly high-pitched to her ears, and sweat begins to gather on her brow as Regina steps towards her, her head cocked with curiosity.

 

“But I didn't ask you anything dear. What are you so anxious about?”

 

Snow swallows heavily, her eyes never leaving Regina's, which seem now rather predatory.

 

“I'm not. I'm just... I'm sorry for what happened earlier. I didn't want to be so mean. It wasn't fair of me to speak harsh words to you.”

 

If she thought the apology would placate her step-mother, she thought wrong. Regina is still looking at her as if she is going to pounce any minute from now on, and when she does, it's with a delighted drawl:

 

“What is that book you're hiding behind your back, Snow?”

 

“N... Nothing.”

 

“You're lying. Give it to me now.”

 

“I'm not lying it's nothing I swear!”

 

“Fine, then if it's nothing there is nothing wrong with giving it to me.”

 

“Please, Regina, I...”

 

“Give. It.”

 

The hiss makes her shudder, and slowly, tears threatening to spill on her cheeks that aren't completely dry from her previous crying, she lets her arms fall to her sides. But just as Regina makes a move to grab it, she slaps her hand away and yells in her face with all the rage a thirteen-year-old girl can muster:

 

“I hate you! I hate you! You're evil and cruel and I wish father had punished you a thousand times worse... _oh_!”

 

She stops short, her cheek stinging with the violent slap she just received from Regina. With great care, she brings her free hand to her heated flesh, whispering with disbelief:

 

“You slapped me.”

 

No one has ever dared slap her. No one. Not even her mother when she was 'acting out'. Not even her father. But Regina did. Regina has raised a hand on her. And she's going to make her _pay_. She looks up at her step-mother to see her huffing out short, panicked breaths and wringing her hands in extreme agitation.

 

“Snow...”

 

“I'll tell father. I shall. I'll tell him and he will _kill_ you!”

 

“Snow, please, I'm sorry, I hadn't mean to – ”

 

“Let me through! I'll go to him now!”

 

“Don't you dare”!

 

Regina snarls and grabs her by the arm, shaking her violently until the book falls from her hand. For a minute, Snow is terrified. This woman looks nothing like the kind princess who rescued her from her devilish horse, nothing like the sweet mother who braids her hair, nothing like the slightly uncomfortable queen who still manages to smile with warmth at her. This woman has wild hair and crazy eyes, and her skin is glowing purple, and Snow is certain that _she_ is the one that's going to be killed. But then, Regina's seething expression fades away, leaving her face bare, frightened, pleading.

 

“Please don't say anything. Please Snow don't tell. Please don't tell them, please don't tell, please keep _that_ secret, please?”

 

Regina's nails are digging in her arm, bruising it, but she doesn't care for the pain anymore, and she isn't mad or frightened anymore, well yes she is, she is afraid, but not of Regina. She thinks about how her voice broke on the word 'secret' and something like shame slithers in her insides like a venomous snake. She sees the drowned eyes where the dam has broken. She sees the soft patch of skin the sleeve has revealed in the violent move, and the darkened marks that look like stains of wine.

 

“It's okay,” she whispers, “I won't tell.”

 

But Regina keeps breaking before her eyes, repeating “don't tell” over and over again, shaking her head like one tries to shake out fever and fear, and Snow suddenly remembers that her step-mother is only five years older.

  
Only five.

  
Why has she never thought of that before?

 

She gently puts her hand above Regina's one on her arm, and presses it lovingly.

 

“It's okay, Regina. You can let go of my arm now.”

 

She pulls off the fingers one by one with her smaller hand, and then she holds them tenderly, and kisses each knuckle, and then brings a kiss to each of Regina's cheeks that are soaked with tears.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

Regina lets out a wet, gravelly laugh, and lets Snow wrap her arms tightly around her. Lets her puts her head on her bosom. She's too stunned to move for a long time, but eventually she raises a trembling hand and begins to stroke the girl's hair softly.

 

“Is that what you think your father was doing? Punishing me?”

 

Snow shudders. The question is genuine. As if Regina is really asking herself. Slowly, she shakes her head, and repeats: “I'm sorry” in a quiet little voice.

 

And then, sounding even smaller if possible, Snow speaks words that wound them both for different reasons:

 

“Sometimes, mother had blue marks on her arms too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you think of young Snow? Do you think her struggle with what's happening is believable or not?


	3. Anger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. It's been ages. I am so terribly sorry for the delay, I had not only a hard time writing this chapter but a weird one, I was very inspired for it at the beginning, then got let down by someone who was willing to have a look at it before I published it and never answered me once I sent the thing, so of course I thought it was horrible, and in the end I had to kick my own butt to get to rewrite it and finish it. I'm amazed by the positive response this story got, and it really helped me overcome my little wtf moment, so thank you to each one of you, thank you for your comments and for not giving up on it and for letting me know that people were still waiting for the rest. You guys are amazing. I hope this chapter will meet your expectations... (I am so nervous I may vomit, as Chandler would say, but I can't postpone it any longer...)
> 
> As usually, warning for abuse and marital rape and disturbing imagery, especially in this chapter.
> 
> And thank you for continuing the ride with me.

"Ah! Regina."

 

Silver-crowned heads all turn towards her in a single frightening motion, dead eyes, blank faces, vain smiles, heavy jewels, the royalty, and Regina has to bite her lips hard not to take a step back and make a fool of herself in front of the noble assembly.

Whispers are spreading like wildfire in the crowd, whispers and sideway glances, and she knows them well, she knows what they mean and what they say, she hears –

the Child Bride

she hears

the Witch's Daughter

she hears

the Trophy Wife

she hears

the Fortune Seeker

– all sweet, familiar monikers that have replaced her name, given equally by those that pity her and those that doubt her. Sometimes the victim and sometimes the danger, to them she remains the same: the wild card, the stranger.

She grits her teeth and strains her neck, hands clutching at the skirts of her dress, _tall and proud, like Mother wants_ , she walks boldly among the parting host, she walks among string puppets, without sparing a single glance for their empty smiles and soulless eyes, devoid of compassion, but filled with mockery, with wariness, with lust, she walks without breathing, her eyes fixed on her executioner-king.

He beckons her to him with a double-edged smile, one shiny benevolence for all to see and one cruelty she alone knows. She fights with her features and her eyes and her smile, she fights against all her instincts and all her pride to coerce her face into an adoring look and a submissive air that can be the only appropriate response to her husband's notice, but she mustn't quite succeed, for the stuffed men of the King's Court keep staring hard, barely nodding with respect as she walks past them to the throne were Leopold is seated.

 

"My darling wife. How good of you to join us."

 

"You sent for me," she retorts acidly before she can help herself, and her heart quickens when she sees a frown deepens the old and tired lines of Leopold's flaccid face, "my lord husband," she adds quickly, her sour tone softening all at once. She doesn't like being plucked out of her quarters by brutish guards and summoned like a commoner or a valet into the King's presence, she has no patience for Leopold's games and shows of affection that are nothing but lies, but even she is not nearly foolish or daring enough not to address him with the proper reverence in front of his nobility.

She curtsies gracefully, though her spine is made of steel and dignity and always protests at the demeaning gesture, her head can never bow low enough, her knees bend far enough. She lets her cream-colored dress unfold on the floor like a swan's wings, she lets it get dirty with dust and muck gathered by uncaring feet, all the while wishing that she had enough power yet to turn the cloth into actual wings and use them to fly away with.

Her reluctant show of subjection is apparently sufficient for Leopold, who is grinning broadly when she raises her head again.

 

"Indeed, wife (he never calls her _my queen_ , always _wife_ in that dreadful, possessive, smug tone, or _Regina_ , in a patronizing voice that makes her feel like the child she could be to him). I did request your presence here. My dear fellow men!"

 

He awkwardly arises from his royal seat, and Regina can pratically hear the joints cracking when he lifts his arms in a both dismissive and deferent gesture.

 

"I must ask you to retire. I have some family matter to settle with my wife. And all of you know how the happiness of my family and of my dear daughter precedes all other obligations (there are a few polite chuckles, but several disbelieving or reproachful frowns, and Regina wonders just how safe it is for a king to admit that his royal duties never come first). We'll discuss your kingdom's settlement further tomorrow, Prince Abel."

 

The Prince thus spoken to bows in deference, but Regina, who is now standing up and looking down at the assembly, can read the deception and anger on his face. Leopold either doesn't see it or doesn't care, and he lets the nobles leave the room without another word to flatter or appease them. Regina refrains from rolling her eyes. She might be young, and a girl, and somehow still new to the royal life, but she knows enough to be certain that it is ill-advised to let anyone walk away from the King's court displeased by how they were received. A refusal, a controversial decision can be forgiven. But discourtesy prompts war faster than a drawn sword.

Prince Abel of Ystaraa is a fair, but proud man. Leopold's carelessness in dealing with his request will be considered a slight. And history has proved that Abel is a dangerous leader to cross...

The great doors of the Council Room close on the last guest with a defeaning noise, pulling Regina away from politics musings and memories of past lessons.

She is left alone with Leopold, but for the two guards standing by the door. Something slimy and disgusting begins to writhe in her stomach, a nauseating anticipation of an evil to come.

 

"Come and sit by me, Regina."

 

The command weigh heavy on her heart but she has no choice. Her head raised so high the cords in her neck are stiff and pained, Regina covers the few steps that separate her from the smaller throne to Leopold's left. She sits down as if waiting for thorns to welcome her in lieu of the uncomfortable wood. Nervously, she opens her mouth, hoping to distract him before he can say whatever he has to say to her and that she dreads terribly.

 

"Your Majesty, I hope you have taken into serious consideration Prince Abel's request. May I remind you that he single-handedly put an end to the Civil War that had been tearing his country apart for decades. He only asks for your support in his recapture of the throne and for his land to be recognized as a legitimate kingdom again. I think you should answer him without further delay. He is not a patient man."

 

"Neither am I, Regina. And if I had wanted your opinion on the royal affairs, I would have let you sit at the Council. But your opinion isn't wanted or needed, my wife. You're much too young and too inexperienced to hold any valuable thoughts on this sort of things."

 

 _But I'm not too young for you to use my body in every way that meets your fancy_ , she thinks with a bitter taste in her mouth, her stomach lurching at the way Leopold pats her hand with condescencion, but wisely, she holds her tongue.

 

"Yes, my King."

 

"Do you know why I've sent for you?"

 

His debonair air begins to melt off of his old flesh, and just like that, Regina knows she won't leave this room unscathed of another horrid defilement of her body and soul, she knows there is nothing she can say that will stop what is about to happen, she has no idea what she has done, she never does know, just like with Mother, they ask for the sins she doesn't know she committed, for the sins she doesn't know were sins.

And then they punish.

Like Gods.

 

"No, my Lord?"

 

She tries to stop her voice from shaking but her whole body is sizzling with fear already, cold sweat drowning her skin and bones chattering, unseen.

Leopold looks extremely displeased, though not surprised, by her answer. With a heavy sigh meant for her to understand how distasteful it is for him to deal with her mutiny, he steeples his fingers over his rotund belly covered by a moleskin overcoat, and looks straight ahead, speaking loudly for the whole empty room to hear, addressing himself to the ghosts of monarchy still lingering there.

 

"What have you been telling Snow?"

 

"Nothing, my Lord."

 

"Lies."

 

His voice, that has remained mostly pleasant, although false, until now, suddenly cracks with ice. Regina stops breathing as he rises from his seat and towers over her.

 

"My daughter has been avoiding me. She flees from my tenderness and she evades my kiss. She even asked me if I thought you were happy. If I thought _I_ made you happy. Now, why would she do this, why would she wonder about all those things, if someone hadn't specifically told her..."

 

"I haven't told her _anything_ , my Lord, I swear. She could just have noticed..."

 

Something ugly and green flashes into the dull eyes of the King and she shuts her mouth, but too late.

 

"What could she have noticed, wife?"

 

She lowers her eyes as she answers in a small voice:

 

"Nothing."

 

He grabs her chin and forces her to meet his eyes, searching through her, searching the lie, his own gaze unreadable, and as his grip becomes unbearable, nails breaking through her skin, suddenly he lets her go and turns his back on her, calling forth his guards.

 

"You do know, Regina, that if there is one thing that I can't forgive, it's deceit."

 

She knows.

 

She has learned, she learns fast, fast, fast, with every strike of Mother's magical blue whip, with every thrust of her husband harsh cold hips, she's a quick study, she is.

She used to wonder.

Before.

She used to wonder.

She used to wonder, until neglect and abuse turned her numb and uncaring, about the unhealed wound of the King, about the pungent smell that still exuded from it. Who, she wondered as she memorized the ceiling by heart, the top of her skull banging against the headboard, the place between her legs chafed and burning, who could have betrayed the King's trust in such a terrible way that he would look upon her sex with nothing but suspicion and rancor? That he would declare the whole womankind, save for his adored daughter, to be his enemy? Could it have been Eva, sweet, lovely, gracious Eva who could do no wrong and say no foul word, tender, caring Eva with the fairest skin and the softest bosom, that saint of a woman, shaped from birth for motherhood and marriage, adorned with every virtues? No, of course, it couldn't have been her.

Sweet, sweet Eva.

 

She suffered the consequences all the same ( _mother had blue marks on her arms too_ ).

 

As Regina will soon. Again.

She is to pay for the sins of others when she can't even make sense of her owns.

 

"I... I know, my Lord, I would never deceive you, I promise..."

 

"But you did," he interrupts her petulantly, and his voice sounds younger, more frail, more insecure, rising and rising, carried away by memories, carried away by his own darkness he has allowed to fester in him ( _everybody holds darkness in their hearts, dearie_ , her mentor snides and slithers in her ear, _everybody has their own little patch of darkness they feed, feed and let grow until it blossoms into a beautiful evil of their own, a beautiful garden of sins_ ) and he doesn't look at her anymore, if he did he wouldn't see, eyes obscured by madness, "you did deceive me, and betray me, and lie to me, and why should I expect anything more from a woman of your blood?"

 

She has heard those words from him before, heard them and didn't understand them, like she doesn't understand them now, but she understands the fate they bring with them.

She is plagued by memories of her own when Leopold asks his guards in a high-pitched voice to seize her, she is too stunned to fight them when they push her on her knees in front of the King, who returns to sit on his throne, eyes hard, unyielding, and far gone.

 

"Lying is what children do, Regina. And therefore, like a child, you shall be punished."

 

.

 

_"You will make sure to please the King tonight, Regina. He will not grant access to his royal bed to any sniveling child, so take off this distraught air and smile like the Queen you will become today."_

_Her mother's hands are everywhere, fondling, stroking, massaging heady-scented oil on every patch of her skin, scrutinizing her body, feeling up her curves with a satisfied smirk or a frown, and she's so used to it, being a doll in her mother's hands, that_ she stands still and surrenders, because if she doesn't move, if she stays a good girl, mother will be pleased and it will be over soon.

 _"It won't hurt much, you'll see," Mother is saying now, and her ears prick at the word hurt, her eyes widen, she wasn't listening, Mother said hurt, will she be punished, but no, Mother is talking as much to herself as she is to her, and she doesn't notice her daughter's wavering attention, and she ushers in the maidservants to help the bride-to-be into her wedding gown, all the while speaking, mindless of the others people in the room_ (the help is furniture, Regina), _words that are arrows of dread piercing her heart one by one._

_"It will be short and quick," Mother's eyes are far away, "and you won't have to do it often. And once you've given him a male heir he will leave you alone."_

_Mother suddenly grabs her chin and forces her to look up, into dark eyes that never twinkled with mirth, that never shone with love, that never softened with tenderness._

_"But whatever you do, never show him your discomfort," she hisses, "whatever you do, don't disappoint me" and the lesson is over, Mother is going away (her wedding gown is not completely on yet, and doesn't she want to stay to see her, doesn't she want to stay to tell her she looks beautiful, and that she will have a marvelous wedding, and she is so lucky, such a lucky girl, my Regina, and Mother is so proud, so proud of her, doesn't she want to stay and say all this and soothe her heart that is lurching in her throat – but Mother never stays._ "I have already seen the dress dear, and I will see it all day, I hardy see why you would need me to see it now").

_"Be a good girl, tonight, Regina," and the doors close._

 

.

 

 _Mother is gone, Mother is away, off through the looking-glass, Mother is dead maybe, and she, she is a murderer, with invisible blood splashed on her white, white dress, and the castle's in a hustle, because the Queen's mother has disappeared on her wedding day, right after the Queen's coronation, and what a tragedy, what a scandal, what a pity for the young bride. Snow is clutching at her hands, crying her heart out and hiding her red blotchy red cheeks in her skirts,_ poor, poor Regina, _she wails,_ loosing your mother, _and the King's hands are resting on her shoulders, gentle and too heavy, and father is pale and still as death on the other side of the room, and the air in her lungs doesn't move._

 _Come night, no traces of Mother have been found, and the King leads her to his chambers with a sorrowful face and a comforting smile, promising, if she is to be found he will find her, he will discover what has happened to her (he won't, and she's not worried, strangely, she's not worried), he pushes her into the room, gentle, gentle hands, so old, like father's – do not think of father now, Regina – and he removes her cloak and he removes her tiara and he removes her dress, and she is shivering, alone and pale and cold in her undergarments, her heart is a dying bird writhing in her throat, and he makes her turn around, slowly, chucks her under the chin to make her look at him, and he's still smiling, so kind, so old, and he speaks,_ "tonight, you shall forget your troubles," _his tone is soft but she doesn't know if it's an order, she thinks it might be, she thinks she doesn't want to disappoint, doesn't want to disappoint the kind old mister, he knows better, she's just a foolish girl, adults know better what she has to do (she doesn't want to hear him yell), so she closes her eyes tight, tight, tighter as he leans in to kiss her, and he's awfully wet against her lips, like he's drooling, old people drool, she's seen it and laughed about it with Daniel – Daniel, Daniel, Daniel, tries to chant her heart, tries to chant her mind, tries to chant her soul, old, old, old, screams her lips, screams her body, screams her flesh – and she tries, she does, she tries so hard she wants to be a good girl but when the cold wrinkled hand slips inside her smallclothes, she yelps and she tears her lips away, trembling, hands raising up to protect her barely covered chest, she takes a step back, shakes her head._

_"I'm sorry, I can't, I can't, not yet, I'm not ready, not ready for this, please, my King, forgive me, I can't –"_

_He comes to her and shushes her, holding her arms, steady, she's shaking so much, like a crumbling ground being downtrodden by wild beasts, she is melting, leaking, frightened water running down her cheeks, and he strokes her hair, softly, until she can breathe again, until her senses have returned, and he nods:_

_"Of course. You had a trying day, my dear, anyone would be as shaken as you are, considering the circumstances. You need to rest. We don't have to rush our wedding night. I shall wait until you are ready."_

_She drops on her knees before him, relief and gratitude bringing her from the verge of panic to the realm of childish adoration, and she wraps her arms around his knees, and she kisses his own wedding garb, murmuring, "Thank you, your majesty" and hiding the tears still streaming down her face, and while he asks her to stand up and tells her she should never kneel before him, he seems to enjoy her reaction, and she managed to please him in this, at least, and she's glad._

_But when she is back in her room – it feels so strange, those huge windows, the air so cold from being so high, the walls so dark, the bed so big, she is lost to vastness – she thinks about how her whole being physically recoiled from his touch, how she is gagging everytime she remembers his tongue in her mouth, how his fingers burned on her skin._

_She shudders._

_She doesn't know for how long she can keep playing the card of Grief to escape her fate._

 

.

 

The first slap makes her yelp, not because of the pain, not because it's unexpected, but because she cannot believe it's really happening.

Her skirts are hiked up around her hips, revealing her bare legs and smallclothes, and one guard keeps her kneeling down while the other spanks her. She is staring, right into Leopold's absent eyes, hurt, disbelief painted clear on her face, the humiliation reddening her cheeks, her lips biting on a single word she cannot pronounce – _Why?_

She remains silent for the second slap, and the third, and the next ones, she only jumps forward a little with the force of the blows, and the motion is familiar, thrust after thrust, her core ache in memory, well-trained for pain.

She never tears her eyes off Leopold, and he's the one who has to look away, eventually, and demands in a voice he coerces to be strong:

"Turn her around. Now," he adds, forceful, as one of the guards seems to hesitate, the one that has a slack grip on her shoulders, the one that is so young he could be a brother, but he flinches as if stung and clumsily helps his comrade to move her so she's facing the entrance now and the King doesn't have to watch her anymore, only her rump – his voice arises again behind her, "I said I want her bare," and she feels her smallclothes being pulled down and tries her best not to squirm, not to let them see, not to show, how much she is, how much she, how much, how, the blows fall down again and again and furious tears spring out at the corners of her eyes, burning, hateful tears, one smack harder than the others makes her fall on all fours, "hold her," she hears, and a trembling hand wraps around her slender neck, both soothing and painful, choking her and comforting her, and she looks straight ahead, unfeeling, uncaring, and it's not about the pain, and it's not about the humiliation, it's about the _helplessness_ , it's about how effortlessly she is dismissed, how much not of an equal she is to him, how low he thinks of her to debase her so – and now, her Anger thinks, now, I could kill him for this, I could destroy him, and her Anger seethes, final, drooling with hunger, _I will destroy him_.

His voice is frail and thin as he mumbles hazily:

 

"I hope you regret what you've done, Regina."

 

.

 

_"I didn't want to believe it."_

 

_She whirls around to face the King, her hand jumping to her pounding heart, having the good sense to let the spellbook drop into Rocinante's box._

 

_"My lord?"_

 

_All gentleness from last night has bled out from his eyes, his eyes that are two little black stones sinking deep into his face, retreating, closing in._

 

_"I wanted to trust you. I let you all the freedom you desired, and you repay me by trying to run away."_

 

_Something slimy and bitter makes her way into her throat, choking her up, she doesn't reply quickly enough, she's not convincing enough, she's drowning._

 

_"I swear, my Lord, I had no intention to..."_

 

_"Two of my men followed you today. Did you really think I would leave my Queen unprotected after what happened to your mother?"_

 

_Some shadow befalls between them, some ugly rememberance of things past, things that would have been better left dormant._

 

_"They witnessed your meeting with the Dark One, and overheard you speaking of having always wanted to leave, before his black magic prevented them to hear anything else. What kind of deal did you strike with that monstrosity?"_

 

_"I came back," she can only whisper, her body shaking so hard now that her teeth begin to chatter, "I realized the mistake I was making and I came back. Please, my King, forgi –"_

 

_The slap is heavy against her cheek, loud, ringing in her ears, but she hears his voice above the numbness, she hears his panting breath and squealing fear._

 

_"I will not stand to be betrayed, least of all by my own wife."_

 

_He grabs her by the wrist and leads her into the castle, and she follows, she knows better than to make a scene, and as she sees all the heads bowing down on their way, she thinks anyway that she could throw herself on the floor and have him drag her into his chambers kicking and screaming and no one would come to her help._

_They can't;_

_They don't have crowns on their bowed heads._

_He listens to no plea and silences all her screams, and he uses his hands for something other than making love, and she discovers that you have less time to be disgusted when you hurt._

 

_On the morrow the blood-stained sheet is presented to the Court as proof that the marriage has been consummated. The small gathering applauds politely while Regina keeps her face in the shadows to hide her split lip._

 

 _Every other time, she thinks about Mother and some of her last words. Every night the King decides to grant her with a visit to her bedchambers,_ she stands still and surrenders, because if she doesn't move, if she stays a good girl, the King will be pleased and it will be over soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit I'm horrible. Sorry. I'd still like to hear what you think though?


	4. Empty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are with finally a lighter (?) chapter I guess. I apologize once again for the delay, but I'm afraid I'm not a very fast writer and my inspiration is whimsical. I am still cautiously amazed by the positive response to this story, and I want to thank everyone of you reading and commenting. Also huge, huge thanks to Marie for her amazing Beta work and to Katherine for her advice. You girls helped me make sense of the plot lol.  
> Without further ado, I leave you with some new players in this wicked game...

She raises the sponge to her neck, and presses it softly against the finger-shaped bruises on the tender skin there. The warm droplets leak along the column of her throat, and she shivers, the touch healing like a soft press of shy, mellow lips.

She loves taking baths. She loves how the hot water licks at her skin, a gentle pet seeking to soothe, to please. She allows herself to let go in this fluid embrace, to close her eyes, to rest, to feel just a tinge of pleasure.

She loves taking baths, and leaning against the trunk of her apple tree, and the quiet times on her balcony. That's what she relies on to soothe her aches away, water and a tree and a few grey stones.

In this castle she can only trust in the things that don't breathe.

 

“You mean you don't trust in me? I am shocked, dearie.”

 

She opens her eyes and wills her body to stand still, her mouth not to make a sound, the surprise and the fear not to show on her face, but he sees it anyway, he always sees everything, and the familiar giggle is loud and sickening, bouncing off the bathroom's walls.

 

“So now you can read my mind,” she says, the sneer too bold in her mouth to be anything but forced. She's not as skilled at scorn as she would like to be, or would like to make others believe it.

Her mentor tuts in a light, scolding way, circling the large, pond-shaped bathtub, and he kneels down next to her, leans on the edge, his breath brushing her cheek as she gazes straight ahead, refuses to look at him.

She's not foolish enough to believe she can have the upper hand in this power play, but she's decided after one too many humiliations to not make intimidation any easier for him.

She doesn't cover herself either, she doesn't bother – he never leers at her the way other men do, and she hardly sees him as a man anyway.

And her modesty would only make him laugh.

 

“Reading your mind? Oh, dearie. Your mind is as uninteresting to me as the mind of a dog is to you. And why would I need to read it when you're just babbling about what's blistering inside.” He smiles. "You were thinking out loud again, my silly little lark, singing your secrets away!" He rests his hand on her head, his claws scratching her skull teasingly, and she swats him away with an affronted look.

 

“You might think me a dog but I am not your _pet_ ,” she spits, “if you touch me again I'll –”

 

 “You'll what?” he taunts her, his tongue slithering over his lips, as if he's relishing some delectable meal, “bow your head and grit your teeth and run to daddy dearest to tell him how I was utterly _mean_ to you, how _misunderstood_ you are, poor, poor Regina, all alone in her gilded cage, no one to believe her broken songs, nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to trust, and so – utterly – _weak_."

 

Her father – she went to her father, after the guards escorted her out of the great Hall, after she stumbled in the corridor, her knees too weak and too hurt, her cheeks stained with tears, she went to his room and she pounded on his door like a drowning woman – and he'd opened, his sad eyes like of a battered dog fell upon her wrecked face and he saw the sorry state of her dress and the disheveled hair and the bruised neck – and he'd sighed, cupped her cheeks, and whimpered, “oh darling child. Why do you anger him so?” and she hadn't been able to say a word to him, she only fell on her knees, and cried and cried, hugging his legs, feeling his awkward pat on her back, his woeful love, and she'd thought – _why am I such a bad girl?_

She tries to resist Rumplestiltskin – she always tries at first – but his words are a strong liquor of rage, a haunting song of pain, she's the bird but he's a siren, a sylene, he tricks and cheats and hurts, and even as he mocks her cruelly, this sickening persiflage finds an echo in her, some self-loathing streak that makes her listen, that makes her react to it, whether she wants to or not.

 

"You saw, didn't you," she asks softly, and she shudders in disgust as his eyes glint with a perverse joy, "you saw what the King did to me today, how he humiliated me, how he – "

 

"Yes, yes, yes, I witnessed your little scene, but if you ask me dearie, _you_ humiliated _yourself_."

 

Her upper body shots up, she sits impossibly straight in her bath, uncaring that her breasts are revealed, the peaks stiffening as hit by the cold air, she grips tightly the edge of the tub, her muscles rippling, straining, ready to pounce, and it's a growl that rumbles in her throat.

 

“How _dare_ you, you soulless monster, how dare you mock me with your perverse – ”

 

He grabs her chin roughly, his sharp, broken nails digging in her tenderized flesh, his face one of cold rage that bears none of the mad giggle that is his favorite mask to wear. He breathes in her nose a foul smell of rotten darkness. “I am not mocking you, dearie. Your weakness is no laughing matter. Don't you understand? Don't you get the true nature of your training? I don't aim to make you a fighter, a master, a queen or an enchantress. I aim to make you a _God_ , to rise above them all and scorch the world bare with your fury. Do you think Gods _weep_? Do you think Gods _whine_?”

 

He lets her go, dropping his hand in the cooling water of her bath, washing it clean, washing it of her, a grimace of disgust marring his already hideous face, he's the Dark One, he's the monster, but she's the dirty one.

 

“You can't afford to be strong in front of your enemies and then cry your heart out when the door is closed. You need to imagine that they are watching you all the time, _waiting_ for that small moment, that slight waver, to pounce and dethrone you. For what you want to become, for what you want to do, you need to be strong all the time. Even when it's between you and your mirror. You have to imagine, dearie, that you are your worst enemy, and that your mask must never fall off, even in your sole presence. And if you win that war with yourself, then no one will ever be able to defeat you.”

 

She holds her breath, all the words ringing loud and true in her ears, a world of red opening before her, a world of might. This is what true power must feel like, she thinks. To own those words, to make them mine. To win against myself. _To never shed a tear again._ She feels it, whirling underneath her skin, the future that can be hers, the ownership she can claim. _A god. I could be a god, and crush them all under my feet._ Make the King kneel. Make _him_ bleed, make _his_ arse swell and sting. Laugh at his misery, while she drinks Snow White's blood out of a golden cup.

 

The dream fades with that last drop of blood sliding between her lips.

 

She lies back in the water. She feels nauseated, drawn out, her head spinning, she's exhausted and sore, her bottom throbbing in pain and her knees and neck cramped, and she wants to get out, go to her room, to her bed, escape Rumpelstiltskin, escape this moment, escape these visions and these insane, dark desires that are becoming harder and harder to control.

He tilts his head, scrutinizing, beady eyes piercing through her, as if, once again, he has access to her most inner thoughts and feelings.

 

“We'll have none of your sensibilities, my apprentice. Remember where your vengeance lies. Remember whose head shall be rolling at your feet.”

 

“Snow White,” she says in a feeble voice, but it sounds unconvincing even to her own ears.

 

“Indeed. And once your feet will bathe in the blue royal blood, the people will finally respect you as their queen. You will have what you want.”

 

 _But I've never wanted to be queen_ , one small, timid voice mouthes back, but it's too low and too far and it can't stop her anymore.

 

“Go now,” she whispers, softly. “Go and leave me alone.”

 

He cackles, and the irony of her own words sends a spear of bitterness running through her heart. For how could he leave her more alone than she already is?

He rises on his feet, steeples his fingers and grins excitedly.

 

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

 

He bends forward and drops a kiss to her brow, his hand gently cupping the back of her head, and she lets him, she hates it but she lets him, because who touches her with any sort of kindness anymore, who but her father and his half-hearted embraces, who but the distracted Snow White oblivious to the turmoil in her heart, who touches her like they _know_ , who still gives her warm and friendly gestures, even if those touches are filled with poison and manipulation?

 

“Remember, my dear queen. _I_ shall be watching.”

 

He vanishes into thin air, leaving barely a disturbance in his wake, save for the sobbing storm in her heart.

 

.

 

Snow's cousins are visiting, two highborn girls from a lesser kingdom bordering their frontiers, two simpering fools, Regina thought as soon as she saw them, tall and willowy and snickering, dark eyes darting towards her, their teenage minds fed with gossip painting some dirty pictures of her in their heads. Snow loves them – Snow loves everyone, in that childish, naive way of hers, she loves like dogs and birds and horses do, she loves the hand that pets her and the smiling faces, regardless of the careless words that sometimes tumble out of their mouths. _Is it true that the queen's mother was a miller's daughter? And some say she was a witch too and an evil one – and that her daughter inherited her powers – my father heard the guards say that the maids have seen her talk to snakes in her garden – what a funny old hag._

It doesn't matter if Regina's barely three years older than them. Her position, her coldness, create a distance that separate her from the livings, from the youth. Her crown bought with malice (so they whisper, but she paid a much bitter price) disminishes her like a cane cripples the old and wounded.

Snow used to laugh and say nothing as they vilified her step-mother, trapped between her fascination for the two older, brilliant girls with their megalomania and melodramatic tales, and her fierce love towards Regina. She used to laugh, dodge, spin and evade the strange rumors even as they hurt her.

 

She doesn't laugh when she's brought to her room by Johanna, the grip strong on her arm, the scowl severe on her otherwise kind nurse's face, and she's yelling, her face red and eyes overflowing with nervous tears, "I want to see my step-mother! Take me to her, I order you!"

 

"You are in no fit state to order anything and see anyone, princess. You will remain in your room for a few hours until you've calmed down."

 

"I want Regina!"

 

She's practically thrown into her room by a strong shove from the woman, and the door locks as Johanna exits the room, and Snow lets herself fall on the floor, sobbing and hurling at the wall the few curses she'd managed to gather from hanging out around the servant's floors and the courtyard where the soldiers have their training. She sends her porcelain doll flying through the room and watches it break on the floor, crumpling into an undignified heap, her skirts thrown over her legs and showing off calves and thighs white as chalk, and she cries harder, she cries harder because – _broken_.

 

.

 

Meanwhile, Regina wanders in her gardens, the only thing she can call hers in this castle, though they used to belong to Queen Eva. She's pacing slowly, restless but tired, her aching behind preventing her from sitting down, the early afternoon and the beautiful sunshine a hinder for her desperate wish to retreat into her bedchambers and sleep the day away like she achingly wants to after her horrifying morning and that encounter with Rumplestiltskin.

She flinches as she hears a rustle among the trees, and her hand curls into a claw, ready to summon one of her elusive fireballs to throw at the face of whoever is attempting to intrude on her privacy and possibly attack her. But the leaves part only to reveal the wary, though curious face of Prince Abel.

She immediately drops her hand into her skirts, cursing herself for her impulsive nature and thoughtless actions. No matter how frightened she gets by loud noises or sudden appearances, she mustn't reveal now the only card she has left in her hand to get out of this life, she can't reveal her magic at the first sight of trouble.

But her heart beats wildly in her chest and her fingers tremble as the tall, copper-skin man takes cautious steps towards her.

 

"Did I frighten you, my Queen?"

 

She gives him a tense smile that is only on the verge of courtesy.

 

"A little, Sir. I don't expect anyone to meet me unannounced in those _private_ gardens."

 

He smiles at her bite, as if he's on to some secret about her she doesn't care much for. But there's appreciation in his features, and even something resembling respect. She can't be certain, though. It's not a look she's often met.

 

"My sincere apologies, Your Majesty. I didn't mean to frighten you or disturb the peace of this beautiful place. I realize now how forward I am, but I needed to talk to you out of your husband's presence."

 

"That is most forward indeed, Sir Abel," she replies, her voice growing colder by the minute, her body subtly taking on a defensive posture, her firing hand twitching at her sides.

 

"Please, do not see any harm in my intentions. I assure you I have nothing but respect for the Enchanted Kingdom and its royal family."

 

"You have a strange fashion of showing that respect."

 

"It's because I am afraid, my Queen."

 

The unashamed truth, the complete sincerity of his words surprise her. She cannot understand, for her the words _I am afraid_ have always been tainted with the pain that strikes after them, the weakness they reveal, and weakness is the worst disease of all mankind. Isn't it?

 

"Afraid," she repeats, dumbfounded, and he nods slowly, taking a few step further towards her, his hands clasped reverently under his chest.

 

"I fear for my home, for my sister's kingdom. I fear the King won't grant us the help we seek. You heard him this morning, Your Majesty. You know. He hears but he doesn't listen."

 

"What makes you think I'll be more inclined than him to listen to you?" she asks in an even voice, but her eyes betray her, too quick and too turbulent. She doesn't know how to face this. Never before did someone come to her with political problems to fix. Never before did someone want her to listen. Or ask for her opinion.

 

Prince Abel gently takes her hands in his, and she lets him, still too stricken to think properly, and the gesture seems too bold to be real. The contact is strangely soothing. He doesn't touch her the way someone who wants to take something from her does, despite him coming to her with a request. He doesn't touch her the way a lover does. Yet he seeks something genuine, something deep, a connection. She recognizes the manipulation for what it is, a way to appeal to her empathy, but she falls for it anyway, a little, because behind the gesture she feels brimming a love and a protectiveness that leave her in awe, even if it's just for a patch of land he calls home (she doesn't understand home anymore, and the desire to protect has become a foreign notion).

 

"Because you are different. I saw your eyes before I walked out of the room, when your husband dismissed me. I saw understanding."

 

She doesn't answer and only looks at him, unwavering, giving him nothing but a guess as to what is going through her mind. So he speaks again, and she hears his anger and his desperation behind each word.

 

"My sister. Our queen. After my mother's death, she was to be the new ruler. Women reign in our country," he adds for her benefit, and she gives him a sharp nod, a tug on his hands.

 

"I am well aware with your country's customs," she replies haughtily (she doesn't like to be modest about her knowledge, she's got very little to brag about in her life). "Do go on."

 

He smiles at her, pursues. "That's when the northern tribes decided to invade our kingdom, just before my sister's coronation, while our country was weak after the Civil War. We have won the war against the Old Power, but it has left the country bleeding, the realm poor. We were outnumbered, outbested by their strength. It was so sudden. We managed to push them back. Barely. But my sister was captured."

 

His hands tremble in hers and she finds herself running her thumbs over his wrists, in a soothing motion she doesn't know where she got from.

 

"I do not ask for your army, I only ask for enough gold to feed my people again and help us rebuild. I know how to get my sister back, and I will, but I made a promise to her, and she needs a strong kingdom to come back to."

 

"How do you know she's still alive?"

 

She feels cruel when she sees the sharp pain overcoming his noble features, but she knows a foolish hope is the worst thing of all.

 

"She is."

 

No hope here. An evidence, bright, blunt, true.

 

"Can you help me, Your Majesty?"

 

She remembers Prince Abel. She remembers him among all the blurred faces of the crowd she'll never precisely recall because she couldn't look at them, beaming at her, cheering, or whispering in excitement, either friendly or malicious. But she remembers him, for being the only man besides her father who didn't smile at her wedding. Who didn't applaud. Who didn't sing. And when he presented himself to her for the traditional kiss on her hand, he didn't congratulate her. He didn't offer any wish. Only a silent wall of forlorn sympathy.

 

"What would you have me do," she asks in a voice laden with memories, and he kisses her hands in thanks, and lets them go.

 

"Talk to your husband. Convince him. Make him see that my cause is fair and my need dire. Can you do this?"

 

She laughs, turning away from him.

 

"You are mistaken if you think I have any influence whatsoever on my husband. I am but one of the crown jewel. Pretty, silent, unremarkable among the others. Superfluous."

 

He's watching her. She doesn't know what he sees. She doesn't know if he can see the bruises her collar doesn't cover up properly, the eyes tired out from crying, the slight tremor in her body, the pain that prevents her from standing straight. The weakness, the impotency, the failure.

 

"Do you know what my sister made me promise? What she said to me the day my mother died, the day she learned she would be the new queen?"

 

She doesn't turn to look at him, but he walks to her, and they stand, shoulder to shoulder, watching the sun float languidly over her apple tree.

 

"She said ‘If one day the choice comes between saving me or the kingdom, little brother, don't save me. Because if you do, I will hate you. I will no longer be me. This kingdom is not only mine now, but it is me in a way nothing else will ever be. If I die, I die a Queen.’"

 

Something flutters in her chest at his last words. For once the word Queen takes a beautiful meaning. Something greater. _Queen_ becomes _caring for something other than myself. Being more than myself._

 

"Why are you telling me this?"

 

"Because women have a strength and a power men can only dream about. And that's why they are the leaders in Ystaraa."

 

"I have nothing of the sort."

 

"Forgive me for contradicting you, my Queen, but you do. You were strong that day when your face didn't show the shadow of a tear at being married against your will. You are strong now when you stand while you are suffering."

 

She digs her fist in her belly in a protective, defensive gesture, tightening her mouth, recoiling against his pity. But it is not pity he is offering her. Only his hand, palm up, warm, extending towards her.

 

"What do you know about loveless marriages?"

 

"Sadly too much, Your Majesty."

 

He doesn't say more, and perhaps he never will. Perhaps there's only this moment of being looked at with something other than pity, hatred, lust, suspicion or indifference.

Or not. Perhaps she has more.

Perhaps she can change things.

Perhaps she can be strong.

With a sharp intake of breath, she takes his hand and shake it.

 

"I will try. But I can make no promises."

 

"With all due respect, Your Majesty, I think you just did. To yourself."

 

He smiles at her as she lets go of his hand, and she doesn't quite know how to smile back, but she tries anyway.

That's when her chambermaid of the month (they come and go quicker than the seasons, mostly because of Snow's dislike of them in her absurd fits of jealousy when they get too close to Regina) comes rushing in, her skirts gathered in her hands, with barely a look to Prince Abel and a short curtsy for her.

 

"Your majesty, the King is asking for you. He has important news to deliver."

 

She's young, this one, she speaks one or two words more than she oughts to, she won't last long. Regina gives a quick nod to Abel, hastily taking her leave with a rushed "Sir," and following the maid out of the gardens, her insides churning in discomfort, her mind anticipating new horrors.

 

.

 

Snow stops lazily hitting the wall with her leather ball when she hears someone knock on her door.

Not someone.

Regina.

She would recognize those soft, imperious knocks anywhere.

She rushes to the door as Regina unlocks it, scrubbing madly at the stains on her cheeks left by her tears, and she throws herself at her step-mother once the door is open, before Regina can set even a foot into her room. Snow locks her arms around the slender neck, her fingers grip the silky, dark shawl covering Regina from neck to upper back, and hold on tight.

 

“I've asked for you! I kept asking but they wouldn't open the door and you didn't come! Oh Regina, my cousins treated me so unfairly! They said awful, _awful_ things about you and when I told them I wouldn't stand it and that they knew nothing of what they were speaking of and that they were spiteful and mean, Felicity _slapped_ me! But I'm the one that got punished because I slapped her back and it's not _fair_...”

 

She's felt Regina tense as she'd wrapped her arms around her, but she'd assumed it was only the surprise, and that strange way her step-mother has of recoiling at other people's touch. But she feels her shaking now, as if from exhaustion and pain, and slowly, with a strained smile, Regina forces her to let go, to take a step back. “Easy my dear,” she says and you would never guess at the placid tone of her voice that she could ever feel anything. “There's no need to make such a fuss. You must tell me calmly about this. Sit down on the bed, Snow.”

 

She does as she's told while Regina closes the door behind her, and she wrings her hands and her feet are kicking the air nervously as she waits for her step-mother to sit next down to her. But she doesn't, she just stays by her side, standing.

 

“Won't you sit down?”

 

“I'd rather be standing, dear.”

 

“Why? Please, sit with me. I want you near me.”

 

She doesn't feel above adopting the pleading tone that was hers when she was five, she always got everything she wanted by playing the baby, _daddy's little girl_ , but Regina, she's never been quite as sensitive to her light babbling. Though she almost always comply. She does this time too, gritting her teeth as she slowly lowers herself next to her, exhaling loudly as her bottom enters in contact with the bedding. It's little, it's restrained, but it's there. Snow frowns.

 

“Are you hurt?”

 

“I'm fine, dear. Just a little sore after a bad night's sleep.”

 

“But when I saw you this morning at breakfast you weren't – ”

 

“Why don't you start from the beginning, Snow, and tell me how you came to being punished?”

 

“Oh, I cannot believe it!” she spits angrily, forgetting about Regina's strange pain as the slight that's been done to her takes all the place in her heart. “They were talking about you and Father... they were saying horrible things...” her voice drowns into silence as she realizes what she's saying and to whom and how much more impact those words have here, between them, in that great hall of obscure truths and convenient lies. But Regina doesn't allow her to stop, she presses on, as if determined to not let Snow escape her unease. "What horrible things," she asks, and her voice is deadly cold and threatens like thunder.

 

"I... It's not what you think, I swear. I didn't tell them anything. I didn't tell anyone anything."

 

She tries to touch Regina's arm, timidly, but her step-mother shies away and she lowers her hand, defeated.

 

"They were talking... about why you aren't with child yet. They said Father married you out of kindness and gratitude but he can't bear to touch you after he lost his true love. Or maybe he does but out of obligation and you must be cursed not to bear children because your mother was a witch! They said so many awful things and they were laughing and I yelled at them and we fought but _I_ got punished."

 

The sobs start again, too loud in her chest, and she throws herself over Regina's lap, burying her face against her thigh and clutching tight at the ample dress, and she draws a sigh of relief broken by a few hiccups when her step-mother runs her long fingers in her curls.

 

"Why did they say that Regina? Why do they hate you so much?"

 

She feels Regina's hand pull back, a few seconds, and then the fingers start again on her skull, scratching a little rougher, combing a little stronger.

 

"They're hardly the only ones, dear. You have been well sheltered from all this until now. But I am not loved in this kingdom or the next."

 

"They don't know you like I do," Snow murmurs in worship, straightening up and taking her step-mother's hands in hers, pressing her mouth over them ardently, lavishing her palms, her knuckles with loving kisses.

 

"I won't apologize to them, I won't. I hate them. I never want to see them again. And I'm glad I hurt them."

 

She turns her hands in Regina's open palms, until her nails are facing the ceiling. There's still some blood drying there, from where she'd scratched Felicity's cheek. She hadn't wanted to remove it, viciously enjoying the proof of the pain she'd inflicted in return. Regina's hands leave hers, to fetch a light blue handkerchief inside her long sleeve and she starts dabbing at Snow's cheeks, gently, sweeping the tears away, the old and the fresh.

 

"That is not how a princess behaves, Snow. You will apologize to them. Your cousins are young and foolish, and they merely parrots the words they've heard elsewhere without fully understanding them. You will apologize because their father is a dear friend of yours and his kingdom an ally. You wouldn't want to start a war on account of a childish quarrel, would you?"

 

"I wouldn't care," she stays, stubborn, while Regina brushes the corner of her lips, and she leans against the touch, closing her eyes. "I don't care because I was right and they were wrong and I can't let people talk about you this way!"

 

"You can and you will."

 

She blinks, startled by the acrid tone in a voice that was soft as honey two seconds ago. Regina's eyes are withdrawn and hard, her hand gripping Snow's wrist in a vise.

 

"Listen to me very carefully because it is the last time we will speak about this. Whatever you think you saw between you father and I that night, you need to forget it."

 

"What do you mean what I think I saw, I know what I saw!"

 

"No, you don't. You don't know anything because you're a child and don't understand what is marriage, or what happens between a man and a woman."

 

"I do! I'm beginning to! You said you would help me understand, that you would teach me, and we read those beautiful stories together and you told me about love and that love should never leave marks on mothers' arms and husbands shouldn't beat their wives! I _know_. Why are you lying to me now?"

 

"Because, you silly girl," Regina growls with her lips curled, grasping her by the hair and bringing her face close to hers, "you know _nothing_. You are a spoiled little princess who cannot think past your hurts and desires. But from now on you will listen to what I say. You shall not defend my honor more than reason requires when others speak ill of me. You shall not think badly of your father, avoid him or question him, _especially not about me_. And you shall never, _never_ mention or think about that night again. Is that clear, Snow White?"

 

She holds her breath as Regina's anger blows on her face, as her perfume and the grip in her hair makes her shiver. Then, with a deliberate slowness, a blushing fear like when she's trying to touch a filly for the first time, or to hold a wounded bird in her palm, she extends her hand, and grazes Regina's cheek with her fingertips.

 

"He told you to say that, didn't he?" she breathes, filled with sorrow to the point she wants to burst, and Regina's long and painful exhale sends little needles running through her heart. "Did he hurt you again?"

 

"Snow, I told you to – "

 

"Why are you wearing a shawl, Regina? You never wear them."

 

Snow runs her hand from Regina's cheek to her neck, she thinks her step-mother will stop her, but she doesn't, she's struggling to breathe, her eyes half-closed, glassy, as if her mind flew far, far away, and tenderly, Snow undoes the silky material and lets it fall on the bed.

Regina wears a blue collar of fingerprints.

Her eyes fill with tears that hold nothing to the fat and loud tears of childhood.

 

"I am so – "

 

"He's sending you away."

 

She stops halfway through her feeble apology, her fingers stilling inches from Regina's skin.

 

"What?"

 

Her step-mother is averting her eyes, looking through the window, her gaze attached to the birds floating by, her voice thick, but toneless.

 

"To King Midas' court. You will be in the care of his daughter Abigail and her young siblings. You will learn everything about the royal etiquette and prepare yourself for the royal role you will assume one day."

 

"What are you talking about, what nonsense is it – I don't want to go!"

 

"It's your father's decision, Snow."

 

"But... (she's gasping for breath, feeling the ground shift under her, her roots being severed one by one) how long will I stay?"

 

Regina lowers her eyes, her face an emotionless mask, her hands twitching nervously in her lap.

 

"A few months at least."

 

"A few months?!"

 

She breaks and she yells and throws the delicate objects on her bedside table against the wall, where they join the broken doll on the ground, and she punches and kicks at her bed, angered further by Regina's absolute immobility and impassible expression.

 

"When?" she asks a last question in a hoarse voice, rough from her cries, swaying on her feet while she tries to lock eyes with Regina.

 

Perhaps she only imagines the tightness in her step-mother's voice when she answers: "Tomorrow morning."

 

Snow takes her head between her hands and crumples to the floor, for once too weighed down by shock to be able to weep.

 

.

 

She doesn't need to ask Regina to sleep in her bed that night, and she is a bit comforted, at least, that she's not for once the only one seeking comfort. She barely listens as Regina tells her in a low voice about the royal debts and the loan King Midas has granted him, about how she is to go over to the Golden Kingdom to make sure Leopold will pay him back, about a possible marriage, about – she stops listening, and stares at the flickering flame of the candle on her nightstand, dancing like the hair of a fairy caught in the wind. She takes along time to realize that Regina has stopped talking, that her hand is heavy on her shoulder, and that maybe she's about to fall asleep. She turns in her bed, facing the beautiful face she loves so much, a face so calm and still like pure water in a crystal glass.

 

“I don't care what his reasons are,” she rasps out, spitting the words like stones. “He's taking you away from me. He's doing it on purpose.”

 

Regina not answering is confirmation enough.

Her face screws up, but she doesn't cry, dried out from all her tears, but she can't bear to look at Regina when she's on the verge of losing her for whole _months_ , so she goes to rest her head on her soft chest gently swelling with every breath, she snuggles into her warmth as if it is the last time.

And it is, she's saying goodbye to her childhood tonight.

 

“I don't want to leave you,” she whimpers and it's poison in her mouth, attacking her insides.

 

She feels Regina's hand burying in her hair, the other pressing strongly against the small of her back, and she leans on, heavy, needy, pushing with all her weight as if she could melt and merge into Regina's welcoming flesh. She feels more than she hears the words whispered against the top of her head. “I will think about you everyday.”

Her eyes well up, it seems she had one or two tears left after all, and she eventually surrenders to sleep, lulled by Regina's breathing and the soft, urgent kisses breathed into her hair.

 

.

 

She doesn't know what she feels as she sees Snow walking away on her horse, her head down and her shoulders shaken by sobs. There isn't a dry eye in their small gathering to send the princess away, and despite Johanna reaching out gently from atop her own horse, Snow never calms down.  
No one dares to comment on Leopold's absence. Not now, not openly, but there will be rumors afterwards, about a so-called loving father who didn't bother watching his daughter's departure, or about a sorrowful man too broken to get out of his room and stop his cries. Whatever the truth, the unease will remain.

This time, she jumps when he appears.

 

"Your little plaything is going away, I see."

 

She's left the courtyard to go to her room and stand over her balcony, where she could see the small party escorting Snow's journey disappear behind the hills. She's been so busy evaluating the void quickly digging in her heart that she had paid little attention to anything else. And certainly not to her lurking master.

She keeps her back to him, and takes a moment to will her features into a blank mask and her voice into a smirk.

 

"Thankfully. Her presence will stop grating on my nerves and I can finally focus on my lessons with you. It is for the best."

 

"Is it indeed?"

 

She shivers as he whispers in her ear, much closer than she assumed, and as his fingers grab her bicep and turn her towards him, she knows he's not fooled.

 

“Are you sure that while she's gone you're not going to forget who your real enemy is?”

 

She tilts her head back, high and proud, and her lips curl, curl until a grin appears that would make a wolf run off.

 

“My dear Rumplestiltskin. How could I ever forget the girl who cost me my freedom and my happiness?”

 

He seems satisfied enough with her answer and lets out a fond giggle while his finger trails over her face.

 

“That's the spirit, dearie.”

 

When she's alone and the light is bleeding out and the riders are long gone behind the sunset, she lets her fingers hover above her breasts, hesitates for a beat, then plunges them deep within her chest, grasping her own heart with a gasp, squeezing it so painfully her breath dies out in her throat. When she tears it out, the bright, deep red makes her head spin and she has to lean on her bedpost. She looks and looks but nothing in here gives her an answer about the moment where love and hatred merged, when the enemy became herself.

She puts it back in her chest, and still the void remains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would especially love to hear your thoughts about the Golden Queen scene and about Prince Abel - those were particularly tricky to write. Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Any thoughts?


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